I wanted to paint with words... write random phrases that occur to me while I imagine a metal image, and try to connect all of the mental images together under a greater theme, as to form the painting. This is an attempt at it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A thousand shards of broken glass, a thousand broken reflections of the moon...
You are your own broken reflection.
For the sake of the simple idea of confusion, they laid a framework for what it could be but never defined it, as not to limit it.
Your head is a house, your eyes its windows. And nobody ever visits.
It was all wrong, because it was all perfect.
His sense of regret was killing his sense of guilt. Regret became the murderer. He was no more.
A traveler stopping by to look decides to settle there forever.
Up on the green hill they lived alone, in silence, forever.
The grass waltzed with the wind, slowly, elegantly. In its weakness lay its beauty.
Paint an emotion, paint motion. Paint the impossible with all your devotion.
Wasting away at the shores of his own soul, he decided to abandon the seas and deserts within himself, and go find a forest in someone else.
Between the grains of sand lay the infinite wisdom of the Earth.
Of all the people, he was chosen to not be.
A demented existence asking for forgiveness, forever held at bay by all.
At the same exact hour, every night, she would confide herself to the warm darkness of her own soul.
In the stars he saw her eyes, in the ocean her infinite love. And then he understood: he never deserved her. But he decided to try anyway.
A motive, purer than the best of diamonds, is still only a motive. Without the courage to act on it, it will remain a motive. And, if left for a time long enough, it would decay.
The sheet of glass fell, and was shattered into a thousand pieces. A thousand shards...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A thousand shards of broken glass, a thousand broken reflections of the moon...
You are your own broken reflection.
For the sake of the simple idea of confusion, they laid a framework for what it could be but never defined it, as not to limit it.
Your head is a house, your eyes its windows. And nobody ever visits.
It was all wrong, because it was all perfect.
His sense of regret was killing his sense of guilt. Regret became the murderer. He was no more.
A traveler stopping by to look decides to settle there forever.
Up on the green hill they lived alone, in silence, forever.
The grass waltzed with the wind, slowly, elegantly. In its weakness lay its beauty.
Paint an emotion, paint motion. Paint the impossible with all your devotion.
Wasting away at the shores of his own soul, he decided to abandon the seas and deserts within himself, and go find a forest in someone else.
Between the grains of sand lay the infinite wisdom of the Earth.
Of all the people, he was chosen to not be.
A demented existence asking for forgiveness, forever held at bay by all.
At the same exact hour, every night, she would confide herself to the warm darkness of her own soul.
In the stars he saw her eyes, in the ocean her infinite love. And then he understood: he never deserved her. But he decided to try anyway.
A motive, purer than the best of diamonds, is still only a motive. Without the courage to act on it, it will remain a motive. And, if left for a time long enough, it would decay.
The sheet of glass fell, and was shattered into a thousand pieces. A thousand shards...
No comments:
Post a Comment